


The Best Things Happen While You Dance

by rat_in_the_pool



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rat_in_the_pool/pseuds/rat_in_the_pool
Summary: Emma likes to dance. Killian likes that Emma likes to dance. Though it can get distracting when he’s only home because he forgot his phone and he’s trying to get back to his shift at the station and there’s NO TIME to be seduced by his wife, bloody hell, woman...Day 21 of CS January Joy 2018





	The Best Things Happen While You Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I guess all I want to write is Killian’s opinions on popular culture?? Also, ha ha I meant for this to be something fun and domestic about Killian being perplexed by modern music/dancing and then smut happened, whoops.

His wife liked to dance.

Killian discovered this gradually even before their courtship began.

While in her vehicle, on that awkward journey back from New York, he’d caught her mouthing along silently to something on the radio, her finger tapping along with the oddly prominent percussion on the steering wheel. _Upon the sea where the misty moon is playing havoc with the tide..._

During late nights at the station, pouring over town census records, he’d watch her stand up and stretch only to relax into a sway, a faint pulse to her movement matching the mellow rhythm of the music emanating from her computer. She’d tap a key to increase the volume so she could hum along. _I could never see tomorrow...I was never told about the sorrow…_

Truthfully, Killian was too over-stimulated from watching the stretch to process the dancing at the time. But later he’d been quietly thrilled that she felt comfortable enough to let her guard down in his presence, that she trusted him enough to let him see her be carefree, to see her be silly.

But he didn’t realize how musically inclined Emma really was until they began living under the same roof.

Everything seemed to call for accompaniment in Emma’s mind. Paperwork, exercise, showering (as if she needed the excuse to take even longer with this particular task). Killian often found her in the kitchen, too busy whipping her hair or belting “the best part” to notice she was burning breakfast.

Henry was worse. If Killian entered a room where the lad had music playing, he was usually pestered into sitting and scolded into staying quiet so he could “really absorb” the song. This was typically followed by a brief contextual lecture courtesy of Henry’s ongoing quest to educate Killian on the popular culture of his adopted realm.

The boy often acted as a fellow culprit of their burned meals, the “Shoop” incident being a prime example.

It was a weekend and Killian was half way down the stairs when he heard the beat from the kitchen. He recognized the style - the type that was more like spoken verse, heavily laden with modern slang. The most difficult to get used to, though the rhythm was a revelation

(“If you really want to appreciate it,” Henry had told him him, “you’ve gotta do your research, ‘cause it started out as, like, protest music? But now it’s gotten all commercial in the mainstream - well, not totally.” He pulled out his phone to add to Killian’s film curriculum. “We’re gonna have to watch _The Get Down_ , and DEFINITELY _Straight Outta Compton_ , maybe _Paris is Burning_? But I guess that’s more about dance…)

Naturally, when Killian rounded the corner to the kitchen it was to find his wife in _his_ robe (“Why should we buy another one if there’s no overlap in when we want to wear it?”) and his step-son...bouncing? That was the best way he could describe the action. _Bouncing_ \- and waxing verse into a spatula and a wooden spoon as if they were microphones.

“ _Girls, what’s my weakness? MEN._ ”

Killian could really only stand back and behold.

Emma caught sight of him and began to saunter over, the lyrics aimed at a target now. “ _Can I get some fries with that shake-shake, booby?_ ”

“Excuse me?” he said.

She ignored his bafflement, her arms rising over her head as her body seemed to roll. The movements were nothing one could find in a ballroom, but with so many years of sailing under his belt, they weren’t completely unfamiliar to Killian. His eyes followed the motion down from her torso to her hips and he promptly lost his train of thought.

She smirked at him - of course - turning so he could appreciate the dance from a different angle. And he appreciated. Up until he smelled the smoke.

“Shit!” came the confirmation from Henry.

They finished the morning at Granny’s, where the lad found the song on the jukebox for an encore.

Lucky for both of the lunatics he lived with that Killian enjoyed their antics. Such as when Henry brought speakers on an afternoon sail, and the sunset had been made truly transcendent thanks to some fellow named Pink Floyd. “Better than lasers,” Emma had said.

But Floyd’s music wasn’t particularly conducive to dancing. More often, Killian found his wife dancing to “hip hop,” or “motown,” or something with layered, ethereal sounds (occasionally, Killian could swear he heard a harpsichord) over a uniform, pulsing rhythm.

“Disco, baby,” Emma had labeled it with one of her fey little smiles. The term of endearment made Killian smirk even as he felt his ears go hot. He was proud to consider himself an accomplished flirt, but his wife could be rather dashing when she wanted to be.

But it was never guaranteed what sort of music he’d find her listening to, especially these days. With the weather turning colder and with no more seasonal festivities to distract her, Emma seemed to rely on her music even more than usual - even just to get out of bed.

She would sit up, wrapped in blankets, and squint at her phone before choosing a song, only leaving her cocoon - with plenty of grumbling - on the second or third selection.

Her mood usually improved in the shower, where she’d sing. Killian was becoming familiar enough with the lyrics to sing along, as he’d taken to joining her in the shower, since he had no hope for hot water otherwise.

This night, Emma had the house to herself. Killian had sensed her delight at the prospect. He could understand it. He enjoyed his own occasional moments of peace at the house or on the Roger. They weren’t as rare since they’d broken the Dark Fairy’s curse, but that didn’t mean he and Emma (and everyone in town) were taking them for granted.

Killian had the late shift at the sheriff’s station with David, and he was to drop Henry off at a party at Violet’s residence (their parting had been amicable, apparently). But first he had to drag the boy away from the latest of a series of arguments with his mother.

“I can handle it, Mom! You said I’m a good driver!”

“In a car, yes. This is different, and you haven’t even been driving that long.”

“I’ve been driving longer than _him_.” He waved a hand in Killian’s direction.

Killian didn’t bristle at the disparaging tone. His mastery of Emma’s yellow vehicle had taken many exhausting hours of practice and patient coaching from Belle on an apparatus called a “stick shift.”

“Yeah, well he’s _definitely_ not getting a motorcycle,” Emma said.

“Mom, if you would just - ”

“Henry,” she said, “we’ll talk about it later.”

Henry sighed. “You’re just trying to get me out the door.”

“I’m not saying no,” Emma said. “I’m saying we’ll talk about it later and we will.”

He nodded, if sulkily, and allowed himself to be kissed goodbye.

“Come on, lad.” Killian looped his arm around the boy’s shoulder and steered him out of the house.

The drive was silent, Henry too distracted to turn on the radio.

“Look at things her way, lad. She only wants to keep you safe.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, I can take care of myself,” he said, quietly.

“She knows that,” Killian said. “But she also knows what’s in store for you, she knows the world won’t pull it’s punches no matter how capable you are. She’s not looking forward to giving you up to that.” Almost to himself, he said. “I know I’m not.”

“You make it sound like I’m going to leave,” Henry said.

“You might, lad. You’re parents were wanderers, don’t forget. Perhaps by necessity, but they were.”

“And so were you.”

“Aye, and so was I. Though Emma might be happier if you took the Roger instead of a - a motor -”

“Motorcycle.”

“- cycle, right. Aye.”

“Well,” Henry grinned, “would you let me?”

Killian sucked in a deep breath. “I suppose - ”

Henry burst out laughing. “Oh my god, _no_ . Re _lax_ , your _face_.”

Killian sighed, lips twitching as he allowed himself to be mocked. They pulled up to the house shortly after anyway, where Henry turned to him, thoughtful again.

“She shouldn’t worry,” he said, “because if I do wander, it’ll only be until I’ve found my family. Like you both did.”

Killian considered this and dipped his head. “Aye, lad. Very true.”

The boy smiled at him, satisfied and excited, and Killian marveled at him. He was a boy still, but Killian imagined there would always be a spark about Henry, even when he grew into adulthood. It made something pinch in his chest to know that he would get to see it for himself.

He reached out to muss the lad’s hair, which resulted in an angry squawk. “Killian! I just fixed it.”

“Ugh,” Killian said, rubbing the residue between his fingers with exaggerated disgust. “With what? I told you to use -”

“No! I’m not having this argument with you again.” Henry stepped out of the car, frantically trying to smooth out his fringe.”

Killian rolled down the window to shout, “Be responsible, lad! Be a gentleman!” as per his wife’s custom when leaving Henry with his friends.

(“If we aren’t embarrassing him, we aren’t doing it right. My parents embarrass me all the time.”

“That’s because you’re an adult, love.”

“No, it’s because they’re obviously making up for the years they didn’t get to embarrass me.”)

 

He planned to include the moment in his report when he texted her but as he walked into the station, he reached a hand into his pocket and found it empty.

He cursed and ran back to the parking lot to search the car.

Nothing.

Dave waved him off when he told him where he was going, already pulling up solitaire on his computer. He hated late shifts.

As he pulled into the driveway of the house, curious in spite of himself about how his wife was spending her personal evening.

Music was playing on the amplifier in the kitchen, the rhythm upbeat if lazy, the instruments varied - guitar, harmonica, horns.

She was in a towel, her hair plastered in a wet coil against her neck and shoulder. She wasn’t so much dancing as performing. Her face concentrated in a mask of agony or ecstasy as she sang along, shaking a fist before clutching it to her chest, draping herself across the fridge to pose dramatically. She was ridiculous. Killian bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Woah!” She jerked as she caught sight of him, a crack of energy sparking off the palm she raised in reaction. Killian ducked but the magic fizzled before it could reach him.

“God, Killian! I could have killed you!”

Killian was laughing as he walked over and gathered her up into his arms. “I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He rubbed her bare shoulder as she grumbled into his neck. “I forgot my phone. And then I was so enthralled by your performance -”

She shoved him and he laughed again, turning to hunt down the damned device.

When he returned she was pulling a box of something out of the freezer (how she could eat that dreck he’d never understand). The same song was playing, perhaps she’d set it to repeat, but her movements were brisk and efficient. She was focused entirely on her task.

Killian felt a pang of guilt. “Oh love, I am sorry.”

She gave him a self-depreciating smile over her shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, you were relaxed and I worked you up again.”

“Really, Killian, it’s fine.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling her neck trying to think of a way to spike her mood again. “I made sure to embarrass Henry when I dropped him off,” he said.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. “No you didn’t. All his friends have a crush on you, they never notice what you’re saying to him.”

Killian made a face at that disturbing thought. “No I think that little ginger girl might fancy you, actually.”

“Hmm,” she said.

He felt the vibration in her throat, felt her body relax back against his and cheered to himself at the little triumph.

Slowly, he began to rock her, side to side. Trying to lead her back into her dance.

“Am I doing this right?”

She snorted. “Sure. Very ‘PDA couple at a night club.’” She turned in his arms and he moved his hand up between her shoulders.

“No, no,” she said, moving his hand back down to her waist. “This is how we did it in junior high.” She brought his hook to her other side and wound her arms around his neck.

“It’s more in the hips now than anything else,” she said.

Dutifully, he rubbed his hand against the warm terrycloth and felt her hips roll in slow, tight circles, dragging enough to follow the syncopated rhythm.

It was bloody mesmerizing, really.

After a few bars, he found himself matching her movements. She rubbed her cheek along his beard as she pulled away enough to smile at him. He let the satisfaction of seeing the pink burn on her jaw settle heavy in his stomach.

Her fingers had been teasing the hair on his neck, but now her hands (someday, he would have to compose some terrible poetry in tribute to her hands) ran down along his shoulders and arms, making him shiver. She gripped his hand and stepped back, swinging out.

He watched her, expectant, following her lead. Her lips twitched and her eyes danced and all at once she spun back into him, her back to his front, her free hand snagging his hook again, wrapping herself up in him.

She slid down his chest slightly as her hips wound again in a quick little phrase at twice the speed as before. She repeated the move, straightening, and he sucked in a breath as she nestled, plush and warm, against his crotch.

Her head fell back to rest on his shoulder, and still helplessly following her cues, he pressed his mouth to her neck. She hummed approvingly, her hand coming back to his cheek as he trailed kisses up to that place under her ear that made her gasp.

She turned her head to capture his mouth with hers, soft and hot, her fingers snaking back into the hair at the nape of his neck, her hand dragging his up to her breast, her arse grinding insistently against the suddenly aching bulge in his trousers.

He broke away with a groan. “Why are you like this?”

She laughed, breathless. “You bring it out in me.” She spun to face him fully and kissed him again, one hand anchoring his jaw, the other at the small of his back, locking them together, flush from lips to thighs.

“Emma -” the word was smothered against her kisses “- can’t - have to go - I’m on duty.”

“It’s fine.” The word of the night, “I can be quick.”

He laughed, low and desperate. “No you can’t, you greedy minx.”

“Yes.” Now the kisses were punctuation. “When I’m focused - ” Kiss. “When it’s just for you - ” Kiss. Long kiss.

Just as Killian was forgetting the topic of debate - forgetting his own name - she broke off with a snicker. She sang her plea along with the music.

Killian laughed, surprised and delighted.

“ _Let me..._ **_take_ ** _you there,_ ” she repeated.

“The Savior serenading me?”

“Is that a yes?”

He looked at her, skin pink from the cold because she was too lazy to put on clothes after her shower. Still swaying, pulsing, dancing. Wicked glint in her eye.

He nudged at her nose with his, drawn to her like a magnet, chasing her breath, her taste. “It’s a ‘Do your worst, wife.”

Needing no further prompting, Emma fisted her hands into his jacket and pinned him to the fridge.

“As you wish, husband,” she murmured against his lips.

She devoured him. An onslaught of lips and tongue and teeth. Killian could only grab her hip and hold on. Her kisses traveled from his mouth to his neck, stopping to nip at his earring, and settling at the base of his throat where she licked at the sweat there. She worked open a few buttons of his vest and shirt before she grew impatient and yanked them to the side so she could finish her trail to his nipple. She dragged the flat of her tongue against it making him hiss.

Her hands flew to his belt as she nuzzled her face into his clothed torso, mouthing a kiss to his sternum through the fabric. He stroked his fingers over her wet hair as she kneeled.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he bit out as her hand seized his cock. She held him up and licked him messily from root to tip then twisted her fist to coat him all over with her saliva. He had to close his eyes, still overwhelmed by the extent of her capacity for depravity.

She pumped him twice, squeezing ruthlessly. His head thunked back against the freezer door. Somehow it registered that the vocalist in the long forgotten song was begging for mercy. He might have laughed if Emma’s mouth didn’t close over him at that moment.

He stiffened, letting out a strangled groan. He struggled to keep still, to let her work comfortably, to be a bloody gentleman. But of course she was having none of it. She gripped the base of him and sucked in long, unbearable pulls that had him growling her name like an animal.

His hips finally bucked forward when her eyes flicked up to snare his. Sometimes the expression in them was fierce and challenging when they made love. Possessive. Now they were serene and smug, reveling in his reaction. Hypnotizing him as he gasped and shuddered and twitched, rendering him a helpless mess plastered to their kitchen fridge, undone by her expert mouth.

She took his hand from where it was clawing at the formica counter and laced their fingers together. Her eyes never strayed from his face as she doubled her pace, her pressure, grounding him even as she sent him careening over the edge into oblivion.

…

“I needed that.”

“ _You_ did?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Not in the slightest. I know I live with a sexual tyrant.”

She smacked his chest with the back of her hand.

“And happily, so,” Killian added.

She hummed her satisfaction, her eyes closed.

He reached over and stroked her neck, frowning at the tension in her frame. “Worried about the lad?”

She hummed again, her lips pursing.

He lifted his to look at her, sitting next to him on the tile, their backs against the cabinets. Still in her towel. “He’s not going to leave us.”

She exhaled sharply, a sad little laugh. “Yes he will. And I get it. I mean, I don’t want him to stay if that’s not what he wants.”

He drew her hair over her shoulder to her back. It had started to dry in unruly yellow waves. “Very well, perhaps he will. But I know you. You’ll make sure we see him again.”

“You know this.”

He gave her a look. “What’s that bloody family motto of yours, love?”

She rolled her eyes.

He cupped her cheek, turned her face to his. “Emma Swan?” he murmured. “She always finds her man.”

She snorted.

He gave her a wry smile. “Henry knows he’s as stuck with you as you are with me.”

Her eyes filled with something deep and steady. “You’re stuck with me too,” she said.

Ah, there it was. A moment of peace. “I know it, love,” he said, and pressed a kiss against her lips.

Something rattled on the counter. His phone.

She broke away. “That’ll be my dad.”

“Yes, I’m stuck with you seducing me away from my duty.”

She laughed, unrepentant, and kissed him all the way to the door.

“I have to _go_ ,” he said. “Weren’t you excited to be on your own tonight?”

“Well I changed my mind,” she said. “Now I think it’s a good night to try and beat our record.”

“Good _bye_ ,” he told her firmly. Though the effect was probably ruined by the pathetic grin he felt stretching his cheeks. “Put on some clothes.”

“Put on a scarf!” She nagged back.

His phone buzzed just as he was stepping into the car again.

She’d sent him a link to a song.

_Here’s something for you to annoy Dad with at the station, I know he hates late shifts._

_I love you._

Killian attached the phone to the car’s sound system before pulling away from the house, and smiled at the opening strains.

She’d played this one for him before, possibly for the first time after their second engagement. Those few calm days before the storm, when they’d shut out the rest of the world, alone together in their house, soaking each other up again. The music she’d gravitated to then had been comforting, and sensual, and hopeful. A serenade for their apologies, their absolutions, their vows, their growth. Their partnership. She might have even played the song he’d found her dancing to tonight.

The moon was high as Killian drove on, but the lyrics rang true as he sang them out, tapping his hook against the wheel.

_Just one look at you, and I know it’s gonna be a lovely day_

**Author's Note:**

> Don't let this fic fool you into thinking that Killian doesn’t sing all kind of shanties up and down that house that become total earworms to Henry and Emma.
> 
> I think that eventually Killian gets a feel for modern dance styles and will get down whenever he hears a beat. Emma’s got game, but when she’s in public, she needs a drink to get her on the dance floor (unless her husband, son, or dad is around to goad her into it). Henry can’t dance for shit, but that doesn’t stop him from GOING FOR IT. As an adult, his wife thoroughly appreciates this, but Lucy finds it mortifying.
> 
> Title from the Irving Berlin song of White Christmas fame.
> 
> Songs referenced:  
> Don’t Get Me Wrong - The Pretenders  
> How Can You Mend A Broken Heart - Al Green (my “gazing out a window while it rains” song)  
> Shoop - Salt-N-Pepa  
> They played Dark Side of the Moon on that sail.  
> I’ll Take You There - The Staple Singers  
> Lovely Day - Bill Withers
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr about what kind of wild wedding playlist Henry and Ella probably had: [youre-not-a-cat-youre-a-rat](https://youre-not-a-cat-youre-a-rat.tumblr.com)


End file.
